Time's A Wastin'
by Elina
Summary: [[ CHAPTER SIX ADDED! ]] The teams learns that a good day can turn bad in a blink of an eye.
1. Un

  
A/N: Okay, so I'm weak. I promised myself I wouldn't start anything new before my old WIP's were done, but I have no willpower. None what so ever. Sorry.   
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, only the text. The song is Erykah Badu's.   
Summary: The team learns that a good day can turn bad in a blink of an eye.   


** Time's a wastin'**

  
There was a bounce in Greg Sanders's steps as he strode along the sidewalk through the darkening city of Las Vegas towards the CSI Headquarters. The night was closing in, the never-sleeping city was preparing for the solemn darkness, but he did not feel it. He felt like it was still the sunny day it had been just a couple of hours ago, he could still feel the sunlight on his face and hear the easy chatter that had sounded in the air all around him previously. And he could still hear music everywhere. The car honks played the strings in his mind, the flowing rhythm of words mouthed by the people sitting on the steps of a building that he passed as the mellow sound of the keys, his steady footsteps as the beat that drew the sounds together. From somewhere further away he could hear the cello, only that it was the sound of a truck gaining speed. The sounds all around blended perfectly with the tune that kept playing in his head.   
  
_Time's a wastin  
Don't you take your time young man  
Keep on driftin and  
ain't no telling where you'll land  
_  
He hummed along, receiving some weird looks from the people that he passed, but he didn't mind. He forgot the lyrics but that was okay, he sang in his mind anyway, making up the lyrics that he couldn't remember. Until the chorus. That he remembered clearly.   
  
_ 'Cause we're livin in a world that's oh so strange  
boy don't let your focus change  
takin out the demons in your range, hey  
  
Livin in a world that's oh so fast  
gotta make your money last  
learn from your past  
  
Oh baby we need to smile, oh baby we need to smile...  
  
_ And he did. A wide bright smile that spread slowly on his face as he thought about that day, that afternoon.   
  
He'd met someone. Someone new and charming and beautiful and funny and intelligent. Someone who hadn't thought of him as a geeky lab tech. Someone who'd given him her number. Her name had been Rebecca. Rebecca Something - he hadn't caught her last name. Perhaps she hadn't given it to him, he couldn't remember. Never mind, surely he would find it out sooner or later.   
  
The white napkin on which she'd scribbled the number burned in his pocket. From time to time he dipped his hand into the jacket pocket and felt the soft paper as if making sure that it was still there. He would call her first thing tomorrow morning. Or maybe he should wait until the afternoon, so that he could catch some sleep. Besides she could be at work, not everyone worked graveyard shifts. And he could seem too eager if he called him first thing, eight o'clock in the morning. No, that wouldn't be wise, it could scare her. The smile on his face had faded a bit as he'd started thinking but now it spread to its full glory once again as he nodded to himself confidently. He'd call her in the afternoon. Invite her for a coffee or a meal. They could go to that new place downtown, the piano-bar. The same kind like the cafe where they'd met that afternoon. Various jazz-tunes had been playing from the stereos in the background of the quiet hustle in the cafe-house, now and then changing to somewhat funky or soul (NuSoul, she'd called it), groovy little thingy that'd made his leg tap even though he was more the rock-type himself. The music had melted in, making the atmosphere light and laid-back. He'd kind of liked the place, especially since it was the kind you couldn't see around every corner.   
  
His fingers wandered into his pocket again, playing with the corner of the napkin, as he turned the corner to the parking lot of the CSI Headquarters. He was still grinning like a dork as he saw a tall man climbing out of his car a little further away. A humored smile crept on his face as he saw Greg approaching. "What in earth struck you?" he laughed as the smiling man got within hearing distance.   
  
His smile got, if possible, even brighter as he winked at the man. "Oh, nothing much, my dear Nicky-boy. Sometimes things are just too good to keep moping."   
  
"Oh yeah? What's so good about today then?" the Texan asked as he started towards the entrance by Greg's side, trying to keep up with his bouncy steps.   
  
With a mischievous look on his face Greg turned his head towards the other man as he pushed the main doors open. "You know those days when absolutely nothing can go wrong? At least you feel like it." As Nick nodded to his words, he continued with his voice thick with satisfaction, turning his back to the other man as he started to walk up the short stairs. "Well, today's that kind of a day."   
  
"Don't go saying that, man. It'll bring bad karma," Nick teased as they climbed the steps, making the young lab tech glance over his shoulder and roll his eyes.   
  
"I'm not listening to that sort of a talk cos there's nothing that can ruin my mood today." His index finger pointed at Nick's face accusingly. "So don't you even try, buddy."   
  
He lifted his hands up in the air in surrender. "Okay, okay. It wasn't my intention. I'm glad you're happy."   
  
Once again, Greg flashed the most brilliant smile he could manage. "Thank you." His voice poured with child-like enthusiasm and pure joy, and Nick just shook his head with a little laugh.   
  
The hallway was quiet and lacked people, and their steps echoed from the walls as they walked towards the locker room in a comfortable silence. The smile hadn't disappeared from the young man's face; clearly he was completely lost in his own thoughts. He hardly even noticed it when they got to the locker room door. Once again, Nick shook his head at him, smiling. "It's good that you're happy but you'd better snap out of your daze cause Grissom will hang you if you keep living in Dreamland," he remarked loudly enough for his words to pierce through Greg's thoughts. His eyes darted at him.   
  
"What?" he uttered, surprised. He shook his head shortly as if trying to clear his mind. "Oh... Yeah. Speaking of which, I gotta pop into the evidence room. I forgot to mark a couple of things last night." He spun around on his heels, continuing his journey deeper into the building, leaving Nick to stand with his hand on the door knob. He couldn't see the CSI rolling his eyes, humored by Greg's behavior, and if he had, he probably wouldn't have cared the least. His mind was too occupied with his daydreaming. He was already planning tomorrow. How he'd call her up, casually ask her out, "for a coffee or something small". How they'd sit in a small table, both smiling over it to each other, chatting about everyday things, music, their jobs - well, not, perhaps, not their jobs, at least not his since he didn't want to depress her with dead people, but still. He thought of what she might want to drink; somehow she struck him as the type who'd order something called Iced Moccha Latte without seeming like a snob. He smiled at that thought - not that he could smile any wider without bursting his cheeks.   
  
His steps took him further down the hallway, around the corner and through an empty corridor until he arrived to the door on which it said with small black letters 'Evidence Room'. He was just about to dig the keys out when he noticed that the door was open a small crack. "Damn that day shift..." he muttered under his breath. This wasn't the first time he'd found that door open, even though everybody knew that it should be kept closed and locked. He only had the keys now because he had forgotten to return them after last night. He sighed a little annoyed but brushed the feeling off as quickly as it had came. He wasn't going to let little things like this interfere with his mood. Instead he just pushed the door wide open, stepping in and feeling the wall beside the doorway to find the light switch. In a second the room bathed with soft yellow light.   
  
It was then that he noticed that he wasn't alone.   
  
He stared at the dark figure that stood in the middle of the room, caught red handed rummaging through the evidence cabinets. The words burst out of Greg's mouth, his first reaction to the unknown intruder: "What the hell do you think you're doing?"   
  
It was all he managed to utter before his expression fell with the realization of what the intruder's shaky hand was holding.   
  
***   
  
Nick hung his jacket into his locker and shoved his pack to accompany it before closing the door. He took his ID from the bench between the locker rows and clipped it on. He was in a good mood. The sight of one smiling Greg Sanders had created his good mood. He smiled to himself as he grabbed the rest of his things before heading for the door.   
  
As he stepped out he saw Sara approaching from the side of his eye and turned his head to greet her. He opened his mouth to say something.   
  
He was stopped, frozen, by a loud voice that sounded from within the building.   
  
A loud voice that sounded suspiciously like a gun shot.   
  
TBC....   
  
Muah-ha-haa!!  



	2. Deux

CHAPTER TWO   
  
**_Some boy you are  
to wear my color red  
to wear it very proudly  
~Tori Amos ~  
_**  
  
  
  
The silence broke the walls. It filled every pore, every corner, crashed into the minds of the people listening, soaking their thoughts with doubt and fear. The silence was the loudest thing they'd ever heard.   
  
In the middle of the corridor Sara and Nick stood completely still as if lost their ability to move. Their eyes locked at each other, their intense gazes both asking the same unsaid question. _Was it what it had sounded like?_   
  
They sprinted off to movement.   
  
***   
  
Greg gaped at the smoking gun as it trembled in the man's hand. The look of shear terror invaded the intruder's face, his blue eyes filling with disbelief and shock. "I -- I --" he choked with his voice barely hearable, finally swallowing the words he was about to let out.   
  
Greg could feel something warm on his chest and he glanced down. A scarlet stain on the front of his shirt was slowly spreading. He felt an unstoppable weakness starting to invade his body, like poison flowing through his veins with every pump of his heart that made the stain on his shirt larger. His legs started to give in as he stumbled backwards, finally crashing against the wall next to the door.   
  
He heard footsteps. Someone running. He heard a clunk as the gun dropped from the man's hand as he started past him to the corridor.   
  
He felt dizzy.   
  
***   
  
Nick saw a form of a man running out of the Evidence Room just as he turned the corner into the corridor. He reached his hand to pull out his gun. "Stop!" he exclaimed to the retreating back. He fastened his speed, trying to close the distance between himself and that stranger. He could see that the man wasn't carrying a gun anymore. "Don't make me fire!"   
  
The man kept on running, trying to escape, but Nick's every step decreased his head start. He curved behind the next corner with Nick right on his tails, too slow for the CSI. Nick took the last leap and grabbed the back of his jacket, practically throwing him against the wall. He aimed the barrel of the gun straight at his head, taking a step back. "_Don't move!_" Even Nick himself was taken aback by the harshness in his voice.   
  
The man rose his shaking hands up in the air. Nick could see his eyes gleaming with tears and fear, and he let his hands sink a bit, sensing that the resistance was over.   
  
Then recognition made his face fall. An amazed whisper escaped from his lips. "Sam?"   
  
"I -- I'm sorry... I didn't me-ean to..."   
  
From the side of his eye, Nick saw a couple of blue-suited guards jogging towards them but his eyes remained on the face of the trembling man. "I'm sorry," Sam whimpered again, glancing nervously at the gun that was still pointed at him.   
  
Finally, just as the guards reached his side and grabbed Sam by the shoulders, Nick found his voice again. "What happened?" he questioned.   
  
"He-e walked in on me. I didn't mean to shoot him... I-I swear --"   
  
_Him?_ Nick glanced back at the direction where they'd come from. It was then that Nick realized that Sara hadn't followed him. He wasn't listening to Sam anymore nor paying attention to the guards that pulled out their handcuffs; the only thing he acknowledged was the tight, cold lump in the pit of his stomach as he started to jog back towards the Evidence Room. "Sara?" he called out. No answer came. The way into the Evidence Room seemed like miles to him.   
  
The first thing he saw as he entered the room was the tearful eyes of Sara Sidle as she lifted them up at him from the limp form lying next to the wall. Then he saw blood; blood smeared on her hands that were pressed tightly against the chest of Greg Sanders.   
  
"Somebody call an ambulance!" Nick screamed at the crowd that was starting to gather into the corridor.   
  
TBC…   
  
_A/N: I'm so sorry it has taken me this long and sorry it was a bit flat, and short - I've been having some problems with writing lately - but it's better that nothing, right? Plus I've been swamped with work, and I still am, and so I have been unable to concentrate on anything else. I know you've been waiting for a new chapter for way too long and I thank you all for your patience (and thanks to Lady for that wake up call) but what can a gal do when nothing comes. *g* I'm not going to make any more promises (since it's unlikely that I'll ever keep em), I'm just going to say that I'll update as soon as I can. I already started writing the next chapter, so we'll see... Oh, and note that this hasn't been betaed, I just wanted it posted as soon as I finished it. Maybe I'll rewrite it one day... (Don't count on it, though. *wink*) And what comes to the future of a certain Greg Sanders... Well, let's just say that I flipped a coin today..._


	3. Trois

**DrinkSparkyCola:** *lol* You keep on writing, send a word my way when you get something done.   
**jd burns:** Oh, yesss....  
**everyone else: **Thanks for reviewing! I love all feedback. Okay, here it comes, I finally got around to writing this... maybe this'll clear up a couple of things...  
A/N: The medical stuff I know is mostly from watching Casualty. ;) Some various information I've picked from here and there. My point is that I'm no expert. Don't let that bother you too much, 'kay?  
  
CHAPTER THREE  
  
  
_What do we got?   
  
Male in his late twenties, shot in the chest, no exit wound, drifting in and out of consciousness. Sats down to 87 percent, no breathing sounds in the left side.   
  
Pressures?   
  
105 over 69.   
  
Okay, get the theatre ready, and page Dr. Fletcher. Six O-negatives ASAP. -- Could you stand back, please, sir?   
  
-- Sir? Please stand back and give us some room...   
  
_ A pair of strong hands pressed gently but firmly against Nick's shoulders, making him stop his jog by the medical crew down the gray corridor of the hospital. He pushed the hands away. "I have to be there," he tried to argue, peering over the shoulder of the man that stood in his way. He could see the white-coated nurses and doctors and the paramedics in their uniforms but he could only catch a glimpse of the young lab tech's feet as the double swing doors at the end of the corridor were pushed open and the trolley disappeared out of his sight.   
  
"Sir, it's better that you stay here," the nurse repeated, forcing Nick to focus his eyes on the figure before him. The man's face wore a understanding yet determined look that matched the tone of his voice. "They'll take care of him."   
  
Nick let his eyes stay in the man's, as if they would hold the truth whether or not Nick could believe him. After a second or two he let the gaze brake. He wasn't sure if he'd found what he'd been looking for, though. "Yeah," he whispered hoarsely. A bitter, acid taste rose to his mouth but he swallowed it back down, pressing a hand over his mouth. He leant his back against the wall, taking support from the concrete.   
  
"Are you a relative?"   
  
Nick glanced up at the man. For a second he considered letting the words he was thinking of pass his lips. "No," he finally answered instead. "We're co-workers -- friends," he rushed to add.   
  
The nurse nodded understandingly.   
  
***   
  
Sam's hands were shaking.   
  
He ran his fingers through his hair and glanced at the clock that kept ticking on the opposite wall. Then he cast his eyes at the door, nervously waiting for it to open. It didn't.   
  
The chair on the other side of the small table glared at him, as empty as the rest of the interrogation room. Even the mirror window seemed to stare at him accusingly.   
  
He knew they were watching him squirm, waiting him to crack. Knew that they could wait forever. But he also knew what would happen if he talked.   
  
***   
  
"I was hoping that the first case tonight would have been a little more fun than this."   
  
Gil Grissom had heard the steps stop behind him, recognized their weight as Captain Jim Brass's, but hadn't turned around on his spot in front of the one-sided window. Even when Jim's voice interrupted the dead calm waiting he didn't turn to face the man or reply. Instead he kept his eyes on the young man on the other side of the window.   
  
Jim's presence hovered closer until the shape of his brown-suited body invaded the periphery of Grissom's vision. It was then that he finally spoke. "Any word?"   
  
Jim let out a long breath, he too focusing his gaze on the man in the interrogation room. "Cath called. Major surgery. At least seven hours, so you're in no hurry yet if you intend to send fresh flowers to his bed side."   
  
"Or funeral."   
  
He wasn't sure whether he'd actually said that out loud or not until he saw Jim's head turn at him. "He's a tough kid, Gil," he told the gray-haired CSI in a tone that clearly told him not to paint devils on the walls.   
  
As the supervisor of the night shift, Grissom had strong faith in his team. He trusted them all to cope in any situation. To fight when necessary. He trusted Luck to be a lady whenever crossing their way. Still he couldn't keep the nagging voice in the back of his head from saying that maybe Greg had used out all of his luck.   
  
He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Jim was right. Walking into his place of work only to find out that one of his staff had been shot in the same aforementioned place of work wasn't the most ideal way to start the evening. Especially when the shooter was who he was. "Has the lawyer come yet?" he asked, finally turning to look at the Captain.   
  
"Yeah," Jim nodded, "some wet-behind-the-ears straight out of school who thought that working for the government would be a day's good deed. He's just filling out some forms."   
  
"No lawyer in the world could get him out of this one."   
  
"I know." Jim fixed his eyes on Sam, studying his slumped posture, and frowned. "I always thought of him as a nice guy. Quiet. Kind. Always did what he was told to. Been working here for -- what? Three years?"   
  
Grissom arched an eyebrow at him. "Does that make a difference?"   
  
"I'm just saying it's strange."   
  
The interaction was interrupted by the sound of hurried steps further down the corridor. They both glanced at the direction of the sound just to see a young man rushing towards them with a briefcase trapped between his arm and his torso. A determined look was plastered on his boyish face that broke into a restrained smile as he noticed the two older men. They watched him approach. "Captain Brass," the man greeted Jim, and then offered his hand to Grissom. "I assume you are Mr. Grissom. I was told you would be participating in the interrogation." With an acknowledging nod Grissom shook his hand briefly. "My name is Will Stanrov. I was assigned to this case. I would like to take a few minutes to talk with my client before we begin." He sounded as if he was reading straight from a text book, and even with the professional tone he managed, Grissom could hear a little flicker of nervousness in the young man's voice. Again, Jim had been right; the kid probably hadn't handled anything of this caliber in his life.   
  
"Whenever you're ready, Mr. Stanrov," Jim stated. The lawyer nodded and opened the door to the interrogation room. From the side of his eye, Grissom saw Sam's head pop up at the sound of the door.   
  
Jim tucked his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket and heaved a sigh as the solicitor took a seat. "I guess it's game on then," he muttered under his breath.   
  
***   
  
The hospital floor looked cold.   
  
Sara admitted to herself that it surely was a strange thing to note at a situation like this. But then again, she'd been measuring the floors with her gaze for what seemed like days. It probably had been just an hour or two. She glanced at the clock that kept on ticking on the wall. An hour and twenty... seven minutes. An hour and twenty-seven minutes since she'd moved from measuring the walls to measuring the dirty-white tiles that covered the waiting area.   
  
The plastic chair was getting extremely uncomfortable to sit on. Her back was getting stiff from being in one position for too long. So were her legs. She leant back in her chair and stretched them out. She suppressed a tired yawn as she glanced around.   
  
Nick was by the vending machines. He'd been pacing around before but had now settled for leaning against the pale wall. He looked as tired as she felt; he had dark circles under his eyes and his skin looked like ash. Catherine was nowhere to be seen. She had disappeared to somewhere within the building after she'd called Brass. Sara kept her mind busy wondering where she'd gone to.   
  
Mostly because she didn't want to think about the bloody shirt that was squashed into her locker back at the LVCL.   
  
She felt odd about it. She knew she should feel worried, nervous, nauseous, something. Instead she just thought how many washes it would take for the stains to disappear. She knew she should feel guilty for thinking so, but she didn't.   
  
She glanced at the clock, wondering how much longer it would take.   
  
***   
  
"Suction," Dr. Fletcher spoke out into the concentrated silence that had consumed the theatre for the past minutes. The nurse did as told without a word. "Thank you, Kate."   
  
The surgeon peered down at the open cut and squinted her eyes. She shook her head promptly. " 'Tis no good. I still can't see where the leak is coming from. I need some more light here." The light was adjusted above the immobile body that lay on the operating table until it pointed directly where it should.   
  
Secretly Dr. Fletcher stole a glance at the peaceful face of her patient. She still couldn't seem to comprehend what she saw. It was enough to turn one superstitious.   
  
The voice of her friend and her current assisting surgeon awoke her from her thoughts. "Are you okay, Rebecca?"   
  
Her eyes darted at the man that stood on the other side of the table. The scrubs only barely exposed his eyes but she could still recognize a worried look when she saw one. "Yes, I'm fine, Hasa," she assured him and shifted her weight from one tired foot to the other. "I'm just not sure if we can repair this vein. It's pretty damaged."   
  
"Shall I prepare to graft?"   
  
She shook her head. "Not yet. There's a leak in here that I can't locate. We have to find it first." She rolled her stiff shoulders to ease the tense muscles a bit and then bent closer, once again squinting her eyes, this time for concentration, as she examined the jigsaw puzzle of tissue and blood that only made sense to the devoted few. A small, victorious smile appeared on her face behind the surgical mask. "I see it! Kate, clamps. Mark, get the --"   
  
The entire surgical team jerked at the sudden beeping of the monitors, turning their heads towards the sound. "Pressures dropping," Kate announced.   
  
"Shit," Dr. Fletcher swore under her breath as she saw that the cut was once again filling with blood. Then more loudly to the nurse that stood nearby: "Gimme suction. I can't see a damned thing from under all this blood!" The team surged into action, following her commands as she shot them out like a machine gun. The demanding beeping kept on filling the room.   
  
TBC....   
  
A/N: For some reason this turned out really melancholic. *shrugs* Oh, well.... But, still, I hope you got it, at least the last scene.... See ya in a while.   
  



	4. Quatre

  
A/N: Thanks for the reviews! So, I got this chap up extremely fast considering that it's me we're talking about here. Yay me! *G* And, just to cream the cake (don't ask), the coin is speaking. In this chapter. Finally. Double yay! (SparkyCola: A-lin. That's a pretty name. Mine's pronounced exactly the way it's written.)   
  
CHAPTER FOUR  
  
  
  
Warrick Brown sealed the last package of evidence and put it down on the tray to be taken away. With a sigh he pulled his latex gloves off and tossed them into the nearby trash bin. He was done processing the evidence now, the little processing there had to be done; the case was already closed even before it had been properly opened, it was so straight-forward that all the CSIs had to do was to gather the evidence and make sure it was labeled correctly. Even without checking, Warrick already knew whose blood it was on the ground, whose fingerprints on the gun, so he just did it because he had to. The camera in the evidence room had been flipped off but the one in the hallway had captured enough for the case to hold in court. Unless the defense tried to tell them that there had been another, invisible person in the room with Greg and that guy, there was nothing that could make this case complicated. Everything from now on would be just following procedures.   
  
Warrick rose his hand to rub on his tired eyes. He hadn't know the man, Sam, not really. Okay, yes, now that he thought about, he might have seen him around a couple of times but not many times enough for him to memorize his face -- he had never even talked to him. He wasn't surprised about that, though. Grissom had told him that Sam worked as a receptionist upstairs, and Warrick seldom went there for anything. He heaved a sigh.   
  
"How's it going?"   
  
Warrick whirled around at the voice that sounded from the doorway. A tall brunette was leaning against the frame with her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans. "Jeez, Sara, scare the heck out of me, will ya?" he grumbled at the woman, who just sent back a small, apologetic smile. Then he frowned. "What are you doing here? I thought you were at the hospital with Nick and Cath."   
  
She just shrugged. "Somebody's got to do some work around here." Her face lacked emotion, not giving anything away.   
  
Warrick shook his head a little. "We would've called you guys if something came up," he contradicted.   
  
Sara raised her eyebrows. "_You_ weren't there."   
  
Warrick opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut again instead and just stared at Sara. The brown eyes met his steadily, almost daring him to speak out his excuse. Excuse? Reason, Warrick corrected himself in his mind. His reason for staying in the LVCL taking care of evidence and paperwork and everything else instead of worrying for his friend. As Sara had said, somebody had to do it. Warrick had. And not thought about Greg at all. Not once had he wondered whether or not he was okay. Warrick felt his stomach flip with guilt, and he swallowed hard. His reason for not being there? To avoid asking the inevitable question and, perhaps, hearing the answer, he realized. He hadn't been able to do that, not in the end, and now it was standing right in front of him. He cleared his throat and gathered his courage. "How is he?"   
  
***   
  
The swing doors that lead to the operation room 2 were pushed open. Dr. Fletcher stepped into the surgeons' preparation room and let the doors close silently behind her as she pulled down the surgical mask and let out a long, tired sigh. She yanked off the bloody gloves and her scrub suit and stuffed them into the waste bin awaiting just for them in the corner of the room. The green cap followed right behind. Routinely she patted her way to the sinks, stretching her stiff neck as she went. Cold water soon rushed over her hands and onto the white porcelain. She cupped her hands and splashed some of the cooling liquid over her burning face. Reaching for a paper towel she closed the tab and carefully straightened her back, minding the muscles that had started cramping due to hours of hovering over the operation table.   
  
The image that met her from the mirror looked disheveled. Her sweaty hair pointed to every direction and the rubber bands of the mask and the cap had left red marks all over her face. "God, I'd kill for an Iced Moccha," she muttered to the mirror. She dried her face and her hands before crumbling up the paper towel and throwing it away.   
  
She heard the doors open behind her and turned around. Dr. Hasa Murzat gave her a small nod before he started to get off his own scrub suit. She propped her waist against the edge of the sink and watched him go through the same motions as she had just a minute earlier. The coldness of the porcelain radiated through her clothes to her hot skin.   
  
She folded her arms over her chest, tucking her fingers between her arms and her sides. A thoughtful frown invaded her forehead. "Do you think I made the right decision in there?" she asked as she watched Dr. Murzat cleaning himself up.   
  
The man took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his dark hair. "It's a bit late to contemplate it now, is what I think," he said and turned his chocolate brown eyes at his colleague. They wore a look of understanding. "Being a surgeon is all about making tough decisions in tough places. You know that."   
  
"Still, it was too much of a risk and I knew it."   
  
"Nevertheless, it's done now," Dr. Murzat said. He walked up to the sink next to Dr. Fletcher and started washing his hands. "Do you want me to talk to his friends?" He reached over behind her back for the paper towels and dried his hands before casting his eyes at her again.   
  
She avoided his gaze by staring at the tip of her shoes and sighed. "No, I'll do it."   
  
She saw him nodding from the side of her eye.   
  
***   
  
Brass was getting very irritated. He glanced at Grissom who sat beside him silently and sent him a quizzical look. The CSI just arched an eyebrow. Getting no help from the older man, he ground his teeth and rubbed his forehead.   
  
"What the hell do you mean you want to _make a deal_?" he snarled at Will Stanrov. The lawyer just met his glare levelly from the other side of the table.   
  
"I have advised my client to plead guilty --"   
  
"Well, ain't that wise, considering that he was caught red-handed on the scene of crime!"   
  
Stanrov let Brass's outburst pass his acknowledgment and continued as if he'd never said anything. "But I have also advised him not to speak further of the events or reasons that led into this particular incident unless certain terms of agreement can be met."   
  
"Terms of agreement, my ass," Brass scoffed. He fixed his glare at Sam who'd sat silently through the entire interrogation this far while his lawyer had done all the talking. The young receptionist was staring intensely down at the table, looking as white as a sheet. Brass wasn't sure whether he ought to feel sorry for the kid or be irritated by his martyr act. He steadied his elbows against the table and leant closer to the man, shooting his words across the table to him: "I don't give a damn about events that led you up to this _incident_." He spat out the last word with contempt and shot a glare at Stanrov. "We've got a pile of charges as thick as your neck waiting. How does break and entry sound, not to mention theft and possession of an unlicensed firearm? Do I even have to remind you that the man you _shot_ just started his eighth hour in surgery? You'd better pray that he makes it unless you want us to add murder of first degree onto the pile." With that, Brass pulled back again, leaning against the backrest of his chair to watch as his words sunk in. He could see the effects of his words on the man's face. He looked scared. Brass sighed and ran his hand over his face. "Sam, you've got a kid and a wife. Don't make this more complicated than it has to be," he said a bit more softly this time.   
  
"Complicating matters is not my client's desire, I assure you, Captain," Stanrov cut in again from Sam's side. "But I also assure you that you would find the information my client holds greatly interesting."   
  
Brass groaned and rolled his eyes. "Look, buddy," he snapped and pointed his finger at Stanrov, "_you_ are not in a position to demand anything. Your client is going to jail no matter what you do, and I don't care what _deals_ you have to offer. If you have something to say, just spit it out! Otherwise we're done here."   
  
The lawyer blinked. "You don't care why he was roaming around the evidence room?"   
  
"Frankly? No." Brass pushed himself up from the chair in one swift movement, ignoring Sam's eyes that darted up at him anxiously, and gave a wave at the officer who stood in the corner. "Cuff him and get him into his cell," he bluntly told the man. The officer nodded and started towards the table. Sam glanced at him nervously and then back at Brass. Stanrov looked surprised; obviously he'd thought that he held the cards. Grissom just sat in his chair as if waiting for something. "Good day to you, Mr. Stanrov," Brass grunted and turned to the door.   
  
"Don't you wish to nail bigger criminals than first-timers like Sam Kemper?" he heard Stanrov call out after him.   
  
Brass laughed out bitterly over his shoulder. "Only if the catch is big enough."   
  
"How's Michael McKinley?"   
  
Brass's steps came to a halt. Slowly he turned around on his heels and fixed his eyes on the young lawyer. He held his gaze, measuring, considering. Deciding. He glanced at Grissom. Walked back to the table. Sat down. Leant back. Folded his hands on his lap.   
  
"Talk."   
  
***   
  
Catherine had returned to the waiting area only to find out that Sara had left. She'd bit down her anger and swallowed the remains of her coffee instead. Nick had looked at her with dull eyes and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. She'd stayed standing, eyeing the empty corridor and waiting.   
  
She wasn't quite sure whether that had been twenty seconds or twenty minutes ago. She'd just stood there, clutching the paper cup in her hand and staring into space, thinking about everything and nothing at all. She'd tried to picture Greg, the way his hair stuck out in controlled chaos and his head popped in the rhythm of the music that seemed to be always blazing from the stereos when he was in the lab. She felt protective over the young lab technician, had been feeling so ever since the explosion of his lab. She'd felt it was her duty to do so. The least she could do.   
  
She'd failed in her task.   
  
She closed her eyes and sighed. Screwed them shut for just a second and then opened them again.   
  
The corridor ahead wasn't empty anymore.   
  
There was a woman. A blonde woman with a white coat waltzing towards the waiting area with determination. "Nick," Catherine whispered. The Texan's head jerked up from his hands. As Catherine nodded towards the approaching woman, he jumped up from the chair, seemingly bracing himself for the news. It was at that movement that the doctor noticed them.   
  
"Mr. Gregory Sanders?" she asked as she came closer.   
  
Nick nodded. "That's us. How is he?"   
  
"My name is Dr. Rebecca Fletcher, I was the operating surgeon on Mr. Sanders," she informed them. Her voice was steady and soothing, her entire posture glowed professionalism and seriousness. She spoke calmly: "I must start by telling you that the operation was a difficult one. The bullet had broken bone and collapsed his other lung but our main worry was that it had severely damaged a major artery. During the operation we ran into complications that led to cardiac arrest. Fortunately, we were able to resuscitate him and go through with the operation. We have moved him into the recovery room for the time being."   
  
It took a moment for the doctor's words to sink into Catherine's consciousness. She gaped at the doctor for a second before choking out: "So he's... he's not...." The words didn't seem to find their way out of her throat.   
  
"He's not out of the woods yet. He's still critical and unconscious, but..." A small smile played across Dr. Fletcher's lips and she nodded. "Yes, he's alive."   
  
Catherine turned her eyes at Nick who hadn't made a sound yet. As if sensing her look he turned to look back. Then he smiled.   
  
TBC....  
  
_Tadaa! Thank a nice little two-euro coin for this pleasure. But, behold, the story is not over yet. There's still -- Oh, right... I'm not supposed to tell you that yet... Well, you'll see. _  
  



	5. Cinq

  
Disclaimer: As stated in the first chapter, but a little something more... All the real, living persons that appear in this fic _obviously_ do not belong to me, and I try not to do any damage to them (unless you count making Hewitt lose damage *g*). The characters that I've made up (Sam Kempler, Dr. Rebecca Fletcher, Will Stanrov, Michael McKinley, Dr. Hasa Murzat, the "one-line-persons" [and the ones to come, if any others show up]) are not based on real persons. Any resemblance to anyone out there is just a coincidence, I'm afraid. However, these aforementioned characters are _my_ original ones, so don't use them in other stories without my permission.   
  
A/N: Thanks for the reviews, everyone! Just to let you know, this story will still be going on for awhile, if I have anything to say about it. I know this because I just wrote chapter eight(ish). Don't ask me why I wrote it _now_, though (or why it's chapter _eight_ from all the numbers that exist after five). ;) I just have a bad habit of writing "backwards". Well, anyway, still very sorry if some of the medical stuff is off. I tried to be vague enough so it wouldn't be bothering anyone too much. If anyone out there, who knows about medical stuff, notices something weird, please, let me know.  
Lady Lenna: Oh, you're such a hyperbunny! *g* Your reviews really cheer me up, so keep em coming!  
DrinkSparkyCola: So, I take it that my goal was achieved with the last chapter. Now I've got you all wrapped around my finger! MUAHAHAA! :) Just kidding...  
Rainbowsnstars (about An Old Friend): Sorry, I came upon a dead end. No more of it.  
sparkycola1: *lol* Okay, okay, don't jump outta your skin, coz here we go... (this is a long one for a change)  
  
  
CHAPTER FIVE  
  
  
  
The white sheets glowed in the dim room, the steady rhythm of the heart monitor filled up the silence. Bright light filtered through the blinds from the corridor, the dimness eating away the hard edge of it as it traveled across the room and landed heavily on the form sleeping under the sheets, crawling over the skin and fabric. Soft breathing sounded all over the recovery room amongst the beeping and the humming of the machinery as the occupants of the other hospital beds dreamt their pains away much like the young man, who rested with drug-saturated ease, unaware of the eyes on him.   
  
Outside the blinded window stood three figures watching the steady rising of the man's chest; a tall, dark-haired man, whose once relieved smile had turned into a weary frown; a woman, whose eyes hid behind locks of strawberry blonde hair as she bowed down her head and stared at her feet; a doctor, who kept her eyes on her patient even as she continued speaking. "I'm afraid he has a lost a lot of blood. Because of that, we were forced to abort the surgery. We managed to repair the artery, though I'm afraid we cannot completely trust the stitches to hold. He will need another operation once he is more stable, mostly for his ribs but also to secure the bindings. The next twenty-four hours are crucial. We hope him to make it through the night without further complications."  
  
The tall Texan shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily, tucking his hands tighter around his torso. "If he doesn't?" Nick almost whispered.  
  
"As I said, his condition is still critical, and as much as I'd like to be optimistic, I don't want to bring any false hope," Dr. Fletcher stated softly, casting a sympathetic look on the young CSI. "Cardiac arrest is never easy on the body, not to mention the heart. _But_ --" She gave a little pause to emphasize her upcoming words. " -- at the moment, he doesn't seem to be in any immediate threat. As soon as his body reproduces enough blood for us to go back into the theatre, we will. After that, all he has to do is fight his way through this."  
  
"Will he recover completely?"  
  
"I'm afraid it's too early to tell, Mr. Stokes. He would have to wake up first." Silence landed on the three for a little while. Doctor Fletcher eyed the CSIs, noticing that they were slowly drifting deep into their own thought. Catherine still had her head bowed as she avoided... What? Eye-contact? Looking at the man in the hospital bed? Dr. Fletcher let her own eyes wander to the young man's peaceful form. She pursed her lips together, then forced a small, assuring smile and cleared her throat. "Should you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to call the nurse," she spoke softly before starting to leave.  
  
Catherine's head bounced up, as if just then registering the presence of the doctor, and she whirled around to face her. Her voice stopped Dr. Fletcher. "Did you... Did you get the bullet out? It's an important piece of evidence," she rushed to explain her demand as Dr. Fletcher's eyes widened with questioning.   
  
"Yes. Yes, we did," the surgeon answered.  
  
"I... We need it. Could you...?" Catherine let her voice trail off in search for the right words, but Dr. Fletcher understood what she meant and nodded.   
  
"Of course, Ms. Willows. I'll see that it's done." Then she nodded her farewell and left the two CSIs alone.   
  
Catherine let her eyes stay on the retreating figure and it wasn't until the white-coated doctor vanished behind the corner that she turned her attention back to the form that lay in the hospital room. She pursed her lips together and glanced at Nick, only to find him looking back at her. She shrugged. The action seemed to take a huge amount of effort, as if her shoulders were heavy and numb. She let her tiredness flow out with a sigh. "Shall we?" she asked, nodding towards the door of the room.   
  
***   
  
Quiet voices in the corridors.   
  
Voices whispered inside the glass walls, echoing from the concrete and the tiles; behind the corners, the doors left ajar; over the table into an ear eager to hear. Voices served with the additional mug of coffee only poured for social purposes, more seldom for the actual need of caffeine intake.  
  
_"Did you hear about the..."   
"Heard it was a cat burglar."   
"Cat burglar? Here? Don't be stupid."  
"I heard it was a hitman. Been messing with the wrong crowd."  
"Yeah, something to do with drugs."  
"Oh, please. An' you say **I'm** stupid?"  
"Hey! Tha's all I heard."  
_   
Not even ten hours full and already it had become official, deliciously juicy office gossip.   
  
Warrick gritted his teeth together as he strode closer. He could hear the whispers more clearly now, luring him into approaching, fueling his growing anger. One voice sounded the clearest over the others. "Besides, it wouldn't be a surprise considering..." The voice trailed off insinuatingly.   
  
Warrick stopped in the doorway, fixing his glare on the lab-coated man who sat at his desk, smiling cockily up at his fellow gossipmongers, some male interns whom Warrick didn't recognize. The other one rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and shook his head. He turned to leave the room but froze as he spotted Warrick in the doorway. His mouth dropped open. "Uh..."   
  
Warrick didn't bother paying attention to him as he kept his eyes on the man sitting in the chair. "Considering what?" he spoke evenly, yet managing to soak his voice with detest.   
  
The interns both went blazingly red, glancing at each other nervously as if by a mutual agreement to do so. The labtech whirled around in his chair, surprised, his eyes widening at the sight of the CSI. "Nuhnothing," he sputtered.   
  
Warrick's eyes narrowed, and he took a step into the room. "No, please, do tell, Hodges. Considering _what_, exactly?" he insisted with fake sweetness.  
  
The man glanced nervously at his previous companions of conversation. He didn't get much help from them though, and the tip of his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. "Well, you know..."   
  
Another step ahead, closer to the now squirming man. "No, I _don't_ know. What?"   
  
"Uh -- Well, the way he's so... you know, _hyper_ all the time, bouncing all over the place and -- uh --" Hodges looked warily at the still approaching man. " -- smiling like a mani -- um, silly person," he stuttered out. He had to crane his neck all the way back to look at the black man now standing right in front of him. He gulped and blurted: "Well, he's _gotta_ be high on something." An awkward laugh erupted from his throat, a smile briefly invading his face. The smile died away under Warrick's cold glare. Hodges raised his hands up with resignation. "Hey, don't blame me, I don't make this stuff up, it's just what I _heard_."  
  
"Listen you little weasel," Warrick suddenly spat out, bending closer to Hodges face and grabbing the armrests on either side of the man. "If I ever hear you saying as much as a word of disparage about him again, I swear to God, you had better watch --"   
  
"Warrick," a stern voice called out from the doorway. The CSI glanced over his shoulder. Gil Grissom stared levelly back at him, his entire body glowing of professionalism as he fixed Warrick with a disapproving and hard look. "I need you in the hallway." As Warrick took a second before moving, he added with an eyebrow arched demandingly: "Now, if you please."   
  
Warrick straightened his back and followed his supervisor into the hallway, but not without taking one last glance at Hodges. The slimy man didn't move a muscle but his eyes glinted with satisfaction and triumph and Warrick could swear he saw the tiniest smirk on his face. He jogged to Grissom's side, who was already striding down the corridor.   
  
Once out of earshot from the gossips, Grissom opened his mouth without braking his pace - he merely shot an annoyed glance at the younger CSI: "The staff is short by three, cases are flowing in as the night gets older and the people drunker, Ecklie's not pleased to say the least that his team is working a double, not to mention the obvious problem that everyone's a mess because an act of violence was committed against one of their own in their place of work. We don't need any childish bickering on top of it all," he spoke, keeping his voice steady, but even through the thick outer crust Warrick could sense that inside he was anything but calm.   
  
That didn't stop Warrick from protesting. "But you didn't hear what he was saying about Greg!" Warrick yelped at his boss.   
  
"I don't care, and neither should you," Grissom said as they reached what apparently was their destination, his office. He went to the desk and picked up a brown file. He browsed through it half-heartedly. "It's Hodges. He's just trying to get attention, never mind how. No one believes him, at least not for longer than two seconds," he stated and then lifted his eyes back at Warrick. "Don't let him lure you into his games. We don't need an internal investigation right now."   
  
"But..."   
  
"No buts, Warrick," Grissom cut in sharply. He shoved the file towards the other man. "Here. Take a look at this."   
  
Warrick glanced at him, surprised. "What's this?" he asked as he reached out his hand and took the file.   
  
"Michael McKinley."   
  
Warrick's eyebrows almost shot to the roof. "Michael McKinley? As the multimillionaire Michael McKinley, who owns five of the most popular clubs in Vegas, not to mention three casinos? _That_ McKinley?"   
  
Grissom nodded. "Exactly. To add to your list of recommendations, he's also been watched by the police for quite some time because... Well, let's just say that some of his businesses seem less than honorable."   
  
Warrick opened the file and browsed through the first two pages. He frowned. "This is that murder of a prostitute, from last week. There was a small amount of fiber and DNA evidence but the case was closed because of the lack of further leads." He looked up from the pages. "What does this have to do with McKinley?" he intrigued.   
  
"The case is reopened. We have new leads now. Ones that get us to Michael McKinley."   
  
An amazed expression invaded Warrick's face. "How?"   
  
For a second there, Grissom looked strangely uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from foot to foot before crossing his arms on his chest and leaning against the edge of his desk. "We made a deal," he finally stated after a long pause.   
  
Warrick frowned. "With whom?" he asked, but even as the words spilled from his mouth, realization dawned on him and his face fell. "You have got to be kidding..." he groaned with disbelief, shaking his head. His face twisted with irritation as he glared at his boss. The fact that he was avoiding his eyes only proved that he was right. "You made a deal with _him_?" he exclaimed throwing his hand into the air. "So, what now? He's just gonna walk? Get immunity? Do some community service? After he shot Greg? For Christ's sake, Griss..."   
  
It was Grissom's turn to look irritated. "It's not that kind of a deal. We didn't give him a get-out-of-jail-card, we gave him protection. For him and his family," he snapped. Warrick eyed him suspiciously, and Grissom heaved a tired sigh. He closed his eyes for a second and pinched the bridge of his nose to collect himself. When he spoke again, his voice was more restrained. "He's going to give us all he knows about McKinley and his businesses provided that we move his family into a safe-house and he won't get maximum sentence." He rose his hand to silence Warrick before he could protest. "McKinley is not exactly an honest businessman. His money doesn't come from just running his clubs and casinos. Those places exist just to maintain his innocent front and provide him with desperate suckers like Sam Kemper to take advantage of. Most of his fortune comes from drug dealing, not to mention frauds, black-mailing, and illegal trading in arms. We also suspect that he's more or less connected to two other murders. We've had an eye on him for a long time, but this far we haven't had any hard evidence." He shrugged. "This is our chance to finally get him. It might be our last."   
  
Warrick shook his head promptly as if to clear his head. "Wait a minute. So you're saying that McKinley hired Sam to, to... get rid of the evidence on the prostitute murder, is that it?"   
  
Grissom nodded. "Basically, yes, but he didn't _hire_ him as such, more like _persuaded_ him with a couple of thugs. Apparently, Sam is a bit of a gambler. One of McKinley's casinos was his usual place, and he got into a lot of debt to the house. Fifty-thousand dollars. He's been paying it off with some "favors". At first, it was just small errands, until two days ago McKinley gave him a gun and instructions to get the DNA samples from the evidence room. The rest of the story we know."   
  
"And now that we can connect McKinley to the murder, we'll get a warrant for his DNA, which probably will match with the sample we already have," Warrick added, more as a statement than a question. Grissom nodded. "Why are you showing this to me, then?" he asked, giving a little wave with the file that he grasped in his hand.   
  
Grissom pushed himself off the edge of the desk and walked behind it. He grabbed his jacket from where it lay on the armrest of his chair. "Because you're taking over the case for me," he calmly stated before pulling the jacket on.   
  
Warrick blinked in amazement a couple of times. "Wuhwhat? Why?" He couldn't believe that Grissom was just handing over such big a case. From what he'd gathered, Grissom had been chasing this man for years. But now the supervisor just snatched his car keys from where they lay on the desk and started for the door.   
  
With a tiny, one-sided smile the gray-haired man said, "Because I have something I have to do," and walked out of the door, leaving the dumbfound black man standing in the middle of the now empty office.   
  
***   
  
It hurt like hell. And in the back of his mind he had a vague feeling that it was about to get worse - given enough time. He felt as if burning hot needles were constantly being poked into his flesh. The pain thudded in his chest and in his side. It was the pain that finally forced him into awareness, not the silent murmuring voice that kept whispering into his ear. _Rangers Liverpool 1-3, Southampton Birmingham 2-0, Chelsea..._ He frowned, at least he thought he did but he had a feeling that the action wasn't going proceed from an image in his mind to reality.   
  
It was strangely gray. All around just gray. Or... no, not gray, more like... Red spots on black. Blue. Yes. Definitely blue somewhere in there, too. And, and... A streak of light. Somewhere in the middle, yes, a streak of light. And the continuos muttering, a soft voice. _Srichaphan Harvey 7-5 3-6 6-4, Hewitt Grosjean 6-4 5-7 4-6... _He tried to figure out where it was coming from but the voice kept bouncing about, swimming around his head -- he assumed that the heavy lump above the aching spot was his head -- making it impossible to tell the direction. Not that he had any idea where any direction was, up or down, left or right. _Buy from Lillington, 20 % off of every purchase over 100 dollars..._ He would've told the voice to shut up but his throat felt dry and raspy and his lips wouldn't move. He frowned though, and this time it seemed that his muscles obeyed.   
  
There was pressure on his hand then. He could sense it through the hazy blizzard of colors and darkness. A squeeze that sent tinkles all the way up his arm, pleasant ones of that. He tried speaking again but he wasn't sure if anything really came out. _...hear m... _   
  
It was then that he realized what the streak of light was. It finally sunk into his head. A streak of light. It wasn't a part of the flying colors and the dark, it was beyond it. And the murmuring voice, its volume now rising, was not in the darkness either, not floating in the black infinity like he'd thought it was, like he'd thought _he_ was. It was outside.   
  
His next command seemed to take forever to leave his brain and end up in its destination. Ages. A lifetime. But finally, the streak of light widened, and not only widened but revealed an entire world outside the numb darkness.   
  
And a two smiling faces, a man and a woman, two smiles that could easily be identical. Just as joyful. The soft voice spoke again, but this time it didn't come from underwater - it sounded loud and clear. "Welcome back, Greg."   
  
TBC...   
  
_A/N: Okay, I know this chapter was a bit boring with all the medical and case-file yarning, but I had to get them explained too. Not one of my best ones, I admit, but it'll do. _   
  



	6. Six

  
  
A/N: So, I see I still have at least a couple of readers. ;) Thank you for the lovely reviews, everyone, they tell me that I must be doing _something_ right.  
  
  
CHAPTER SIX  
  
  
  
_"...was arrested for the murder of a prostitute Samantha Glytes. The body of Ms Glytes was found last week from an alley just two blocks from the popular nightclub, Multitude. The investigation was aborted four days later as no further evidence could be found. Two days ago, however, an as yet unnamed witness led the police to Michael McKinley. The events took a new turn this morning as McKinley's DNA test turned out positive to the samples found from the crime scene. According to the DA's office the evidence has been considered to be adequate and charges have been pressed against McKinley for murder of third degree..."_  
  
Nick clicked the television shut and turned around with a victorious grin plastered on his face. He cast his eyes across the small hospital room and on its sole occupant, who answered his smile with a confused one of his own.   
  
The pink tip of the patient's tongue darted out to lick on his dry lips. "If you only forced me awake to show me that people still get murdered and murderers caught, then I'm afraid I must give into the drugs and return to sleep," Greg croaked barely audibly with his voice rough and weak from sleep and lack of use.   
  
Nick's smile faded and his expression turned into a worried and somewhat embarrassed frown. "Don't you remember what we talked about yesterday?"   
  
Greg's tired snort hardly carried to Nick's ears. "Don't count on me even remembering what we talked about _today_. I feel like the general guinea pig of the pharmaceutical industry with all the painkillers and sedatives and God-knows-what they keep shooting up my veins." He licked his lips again and looked at Nick through half-open eyelids. "To tell the truth, everything's a bit hazy after opening the door to the evidence room."   
  
Nick's shoulders slumped, not with disappointment but because he felt ashamed. "Oh... I'm sorry, I... I didn't think," he mumbled as he walked over to Greg, staring at the floor as he did so. He pulled the chair that he'd been using closer to the hospital bed and sat down with a sigh. He then smiled apologetically to the younger man.   
  
Greg closed his eyes but smiled a tired, one-sided smile, too. "It's okay."   
  
Nick studied the man's face carefully. He looked worn out and pale, but that was understandable, after all he'd been through. He'd had his second surgery the day before and had only woken up from the anesthesia a few hours ago. But Nick was glad he was awake, even if it was only for short, drowsy periods such as this. He couldn't have stood another night of sitting by his bed, wondering whether he was in coma, unconscious or just sleeping. At least now he knew for certain, and that comforted him.   
  
He was also glad that Greg _wasn't_ awake most of the time. See, he had been moved into a private room that morning and Nick knew that he'd make a scene about it when he'd realize it; even though Greg made more money than the CSI, he still couldn't have afforded it. Nick didn't want to stress Greg, over money of all things, so he hadn't mentioned the room to him. Besides, the payment had already been covered by Greg's work insurance. Nick only hoped he'd have enough time to explain it to Greg before he had a fit over it.   
  
Greg's mumbling voice awoke Nick from his thoughts. "Aren't you gonna tell me what that TV-thingy was all about?" he muttered and forced his eyes open a crack.   
  
Nick immediately perked up. "The news report? That was the case whose evidence Sam Kemper was robbing when you walked in on him. The guy confessed and gave McKinley in. Warrick found blood patterns that matched the vic from McKinley's living room," he explained enthusiastically with a smile. "So, I guess Warrick solved your case."   
  
Greg arched an eyebrow. "_My_ case?"   
  
"Well..." Nick gave a short laugh and shrugged. "Not _your_ case as such, but you were still a part of it. Whatever happened to Samantha Glytes eventually led up to your..." Nick's voice trailed off as he couldn't find the words he was looking for. He looked down at his hands and shut his mouth.   
  
"To me getting shot?" Greg intrigued as he noticed the other man's loss of words. When Nick nodded Greg gave him a reassuring smile. "Remind me to thank Warrick, then."   
  
"Don't mention it."   
  
The low voice from the doorway made both men turn their heads to that direction. A black man stood there with a smile on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Behind him there were two other persons, a blond woman and an older man. "Glad to see you're awake. The last time I was here you were out like a lamp," the black man stated and walked into the room, the other two right on his heels. "I hope this means that you'll be back to work soon." His tone was serious but there was a glint of teasing in his eyes.   
  
The blond woman gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. "Warrick, you're awful!" Then she walked to the hospital bed and gave Greg a quick peck on the cheek, ignoring the CSI who was replacing the old flowers in the vase that stood on the nightstand with the new ones he'd brought. "Pay no attention to him, Greg, he's just joking," she said with a sweet smile.   
  
Greg answered it with a throaty and short but genuine laughter. "I didn't now you were all coming, Cath," he said, glancing at the three.   
  
"We thought we'd surprise you," Grissom replied from where he'd parked at the end of the bed. "How are you feeling?"   
  
Everyone could see that Greg had trouble keeping his eyes open or focusing on the conversation, but he still managed a friendly smile. "Tired. Been better, I guess. But I'll be okay."   
  
Grissom nodded with a tiny smile of his own. "I'm glad to hear that. You gave us quite a start," he told him. Then he glanced down and held out his hand. There was a package in it, wrapped with red ribbons and glittering paper. "Here. We thought this might cheer you up, or at least keep you from getting bored when you're a bit more alert." The package was taken from hand to hand until it reached Greg's. With a frown the young lab technician fumbled the wrappings off and pulled out the content. His eyes widened as he examined it.   
  
He looked up at Grissom. "Where did you get this from?" he intrigued, suddenly a bit more awake than just seconds before. "I didn't think this was even published in the States yet."   
  
"It's not," Grissom agreed, smiling at Greg's amazement, "I know someone who has a lot of business in the Far East and asked him if he could get it for me, and as it happens... he already had some copies, for preview." He watched as Greg turned the disk in his hands. He'd heard Greg raving on about the new game with Nick once, and was pleased to see that he'd made the right choice when he'd bought it for him.   
  
A glint of appreciation twinkled in Greg's brown eyes as he looked up at his boss. "Wow. This is really... Thanks," he finally let out. Another weary smile invaded his face.   
  
"I thought we could get the game console and some of your things, clothes and such, from your apartment if you tell us what you want us to bring you," Grissom continued.   
  
Greg nodded his acceptance, giving one last thankful smile to the gray-haired man. Swiftly Catherine sat down on the bed and started searching through her purse. Once she managed to dig out a pen and a piece of paper, she glanced up at Greg and said, "Let's hear it." The sound of fast scribbling and a quiet voice dictating a list soon filled the room.   
  
Nick leant back in his chair and watched the exchange for a while. Then he glanced at his clock, frowning. As nonchalantly as he could he got up, trying to look as if he was merely stretching his muscles, and walked around the room a bit. Once he got to Grissom, he led him a little further away from the bed. He bent closer, lowering his voice so that the others wouldn't hear. "Where's Sara?" he whispered, glancing over at the bed, making sure he hadn't triggered the other's interest, then fixed his eyes on his boss's.   
  
Grissom glanced at him, furrowing his brow. He spoke just as quietly as the other man: "Don't worry. She promised to come." Yet Nick could see a glimpse of something else than just reassurance in his eyes. Something almost... uncertain.   
  
Nick pursed his lips together into a thin line and nodded. "Well, she'd better hurry up." He tried to speak evenly, but it came out an angry hiss. He composed his tone and added more calmly, "The visiting hours are almost over." Then he turned to look towards the hospital bed. He smiled at Greg when he caught his eye, but inside he was boiling.   
  
***   
  
The apartment smelled of microwave-dinner and instant coffee. The television was on, the volume turned down low. "... is a long way to travel but the sun is blazing hot and the gnus must drink..." Sara kept her eyes on the pictures that flashed on the screen and shoveled the food into her mouth. She swallowed the bite dry. It didn't taste particularly good. She made a mental note not to ever buy that brand again.   
  
She had her feet perched up on the coffee table, her shoes off, her dinner balanced on her thighs. Her other hand held the coffee mug. The liquid warmed her fingers through the porcelain. "... the danger that awaits them under the surface, but they still venture to the drinking place. The dry season..."   
  
She kept her eyes on the pictures that flashed on the screen and told herself that she didn't know what time it was.   
  
***   
  
Jim Brass took one look at the face of the young lawyer who stood up as he entered the interrogation room, and sighed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He waved the man to sit down and closed the door. "Mr. Kemper, Mr. Stanrov, it's good to see you again," he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. "Do tell me, what do I own the pleasure to be summoned like this for?" He walked to the table and sat down, glancing between the lawyer and his client. Sam Kemper stared down at his hands, his shoulders slumped as if he was subdued, so Brass focused his attention to the other half of the cheerful party of two.   
  
Will Stanrov cleared his throat and fixed his tie. Brass followed the movement with his eyes and waited patiently for the man to begin. "Captain Brass, I hope you understand the delicate nature of this case," Stanrov articulated carefully at last.   
  
Brass gave a humorless smile. "Oh, believe me, I do." Indeed he did. He wasn't really pleased to be sitting there, mostly because he had a feeling the conversation would end up in more deals and adjustments that he wasn't really happy about. He bit down the bitter comment about cop-killers, knowing perfectly well that that wasn't even the case here, and drummed his guilt into the armrest of his chair with his fingertips.   
  
"Then you must also know how cautious my client must be with his appearances in the media," Stanrov continued with an lifted eyebrow.   
  
Brass sighed. He could swear that in spite of the cheap suit the man wore, Stanrov was getting more elitist by the second. He waved his hand in the air in front of him in a circular motion, a wordless indication for him to hurry up. "Yeah, yeah, enough with the fancy talk. Just what exactly are you asking for? In English, if you don't mind."   
  
Stanrov shifted a bit uncomfortably on his seat, sitting up straight, and glanced at Sam Kemper. He was obviously taken aback by Brass's harsh tone for a second or two but he quickly composed himself. "My client is worried that if McKinley finds out that he is the main witness something might _happen_ to him or his family," he finally explained. "Therefore he would like to remain anonymous, in the press _and_ in court."   
  
It was Brass's time to raise his eyebrows. He glanced at Sam Kemper. "He won't take a stand?" He couldn't hide the surprise in his voice.   
  
"Captain Brass," the lawyer said patiently, leaning forward again and placing his hands on the table. As if making it a scene, he entwined his fingers. He was speaking to him as if he was five, and Brass narrowed his eyes. "Even though Michael McKinley has put up a sweet front in public, we both know that he isn't exactly pure as the driven snow. Mr. Kemper is afraid of him, for his family. I'm sure that's not too hard to understand."   
  
Brass drummed his fingers lightly against the armrest and eyed both of the men in a measuring manner for a minute. Sam still wouldn't look at him, instead he kept his head bowed and let Stanrov handle the talking. Brass pursed his lips together. Once he'd thought that he'd known this man, at least on some levels. Once he'd thought that Sam Kemper was a good man, a good father and a husband. He was still disappointed with him, but was also somewhat glad to find out that maybe he hadn't been entirely wrong about him. Brass rubbed his forehead with his fingers. This case was giving him a headache. "Yes, I do understand that," he grunted with frustration after a long pause, "but I also understand that in court a taped testimony wouldn't be as strong as taking a stand. It wouldn't affect the jury as much." Yet he let his eyes linger on the man who sat quietly next to his attorney. Then he sighed. "Fine. I'll talk to the DA," he muttered reluctantly. "You two wait here. If we're going to do it this way, we'll do it _now_. I'm not having any more of my time wasted with the pair of you." He pushed his chair back and started to get up when Sam Kemper jerked his head up.   
  
"Are they..." he started, his voice failing him for a second as he spoke for the first time during the meeting. He lifted his eyes to meet Brass's. "My family. Are they safe?" Brass nodded without a word. "Could you tell them..." Sam lowered his eyes back to the table. "...that I'm sorry?"   
  
Brass stared at him for a second. For the briefest time the thought that maybe he hadn't been that wrong about the clerk after all crossed his mind. Somewhere in the back of his mind the thought kept struggling with the picture of a bloody man being carted into an ambulance and the guilt that came along with it. Still, he nodded again before walking out of the room. The two men were left sitting at the table, waiting for him to return.   
  
***   
  
"Hey, Joe, you want some coffee? I was gonna make a cup," Liam Kerrigan called out over his shoulder to his colleague. The uniformed policeman looked up from the newspaper he was reading. He was sitting in an old office chair on the other side of the small room with his feet propped up on a heavy wooden desk. He glanced at the clock. Past midnight. With a sigh Joe folded the paper and swung his feet off the desk.   
  
"Yeah, why not," he answered, stretching his neck and yawning widely. "It seems it's going to be a long night anyway." He got up from the chair and tried to make his stiffened joints work again. He gave a tiny smirk to Liam and winked. "Since the boss is so keen on keeping us on watch duty, he at least ought to allow us a coffee break now and then, eh?"   
  
Liam smiled, too. "That's what you said the last time, um... _two_ hours ago?" He turned to the coffee maker that sat on a miserable little table in the corner of the room and started measuring the grounds into it.   
  
"Two hours?" Joe asked with amazement. He scoffed. "Well, it _seemed_ like a lot longer."   
  
Liam clicked the coffee maker on and turned to the other policeman. "Well it would in this place," he shrugged and crossed his arms on his chest, leaning against the table. He nodded towards the half-closed door that stood in one corner of the room. "It's not very exciting watching sleeping prisoners all night. I mean, that guy is as quiet as a mouse. I haven't heard a peep all night."   
  
Joe glanced past the door at the dark corridor leading towards the holding cells. "Yeah, I know what you mean. But I can't believe we were signed up for watch-duty _again_. I'm telling ya, the guy's got it in for us."   
  
Liam let out a laugh. "Maybe for you, man, but boss's got nothing against _me_."   
  
But Joe wasn't listening to him anymore. Instead he was focused on the dark corridor and frowned. "You're right, Liam," he stated thoughtfully, "he's been awfully quiet tonight." He darted his eyes on the other man who just shrugged, then back at the door. Not a shadow moved in the space that unfolded beyond the doorway. Joe grabbed his keys and his flashlight from the desk. "Maybe I ought to check it out."   
  
Liam just shrugged once again. "Suit yourself."   
  
Joe pushed the door completely open and entered the short corridor. The bars of the cell were seen at the end of it but he couldn't see what was behind them. He listened. Nothing. Not snoring, nothing was moving. His frown deepened. "Kemper?" He walked further, flipping his flashlight on and pointing the stream of light towards the holding cell. No one answered him. He called out the name for the second time before finally reaching his destination.   
  
He didn't need a flashlight to see what awaited in the cell. The light from the street lamps outside shone through the small window in the back wall and landed on the face of the prisoner, on his body, lingering there as if showing the gruesome sight in all its glory.   
  
Kemper's mouth was still open.   
  
Joe's eyes widened. The flashlight dropped on the floor as he stared at the body that hung a few inches off the ground. "Oh holy shit..."   
  
TBC...  
  
  
  



End file.
